Quotes About Memories

These three things:the smell of Shepelevo, the smell of the Metro and the taste of creme brulee ice cream. The essence of my childhood in Russia.

Good-bye, my moonsong and my breath, my white nights and golden days, my fresh water and my fire. Good-bye, and may you find a better life, find comfort again and your breathless smile, and when your beloved face lights up once more at the Western sunrise, be sure what I felt for you was not in vain. Good-bye and have faith, my Tatiana.

Not bombs nor my broken heart can take away from me walking barefoot with you in jasmine June through the Field of Mars.

Oh...I remember you...You're that weird cat-eared cosplay-kid! You called me a cospl... How'd you get all the way up to the third-floor window... Because I'm a cat.

Eres los sabores que tuviste en la boca de niño. Eres lo que tocaste en esa edad, esa plastilina que ibas ablandando de tanto tocarla. Las cosas que escuchaste y se quedaron allí, dentro de la cabeza, con un eco de por vida. También eres los aromas que te abrieron los ojos.

Se van marchando. Un día se marchan los siete años, pum. Otro día se marchan los coho, pum. Otro día se van los nueve, pum. Y después no los busque por ninguna parte, porque, si los encuentra, seguro que ya no son sus hijos. Sino parecidos. Con sus apellidos. Con algunos gestos de entonces, eso sí. [...] Se han ido y ya no vuelven. Y tú entonces te dices dónde leñes has estado mirando y qué has estado haciendo todo este tiempo.

Where did the time go? Yesterday, I was a girl, and today, I suddenly find myself in the autumn of my years with the cold winds of winter breathing down my neck.

I've grown old with this century; there's not much left of either of us.

My love for you won't stop with my leaving. Come an evening over the years, when you step outside your door and hear the wind blowing through the cottonwoods, that'll be me, thinking of you, whispering your name, and loving you.

Shay," she said. "Shay McKenna," as if trying out his name, saying it for the first time. "Did you ever love me, even a little?" Love you?" He turned his head and brushed his lips across her fingers. "I'm loving you now, mo chridh. After I'm dead, a thousand years from now, whatever's left of me, be it a soul or just a handful of dust, that will be loving you.

and I grew up with no one. Except my grandmother. And even she died.

Sylvia enjoyed her Christmas Day with Gwan and her family;

Joy, joy, joy! Past ages crowd on thee, but each one remembers, And the future is dark, and the present is spread, Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberless head.

Like the ghost of a dear friend dead Is Time long past. A tone which is now forever fled, A hope which is now forever past, A love so sweet it could not last, Was Time long past. There were sweet dreams in the night Of Time long past: And, was it sadness or delight, Each day a shadow onward cast Which made us wish it yet might last - That Time long past

History is a cyclic poem written by Time upon the memories of Man!

There are certain restaurants where you should photograph the food rather than eat it. These are great places to bring a narcissistic boyfriend before you break up.

In the beginning the stories were long and colored, but as he grew old and his eyes clouded, the stories were told in only a few words, and she came to understand that all the colors had fallen away from him, leaving only the moments. A woman who performed tricks in the air, an animal pulling a boat under water, dead children who spoke in bones. A man who loved bottles.

There he is, three days after his fifth birthday, standing barefoot upon wet summer grass. He is staring at the house where he lives: the great good Irish place of whitewashed walls, long and low, with a dark slate roof glistening in the morning drizzle. Standing there, he knows it will turn pale blue when the sun appears to work its magic.

The only way to fight nostalgia is to listen to somebody else's nostalgia

Just like that. Gone forever. They will not grow old together. They will never live on a beach by the sea, their hair turned white, dancing in a living room to Billie Holiday or Nat Cole. They will not enter a New York club at midnight and show the poor hip-hop fools how to dance. They will not chuckle together over the endless folly of the world, its vanities and stupid ambitions. They will not hug each other in any chilly New York dawn. Oh, Mary Lou. My baby. My love.

I use the pay phone to call my friend Noel. The last time I was here he took me up a mountainside in Connemara with a seventy-eight-year-old poteen-maker who'd learned his craft as a teenager from his father. We spent the day watching him double-distill brown bog water in two oil drums over a turf fire into something that tasted like the finest malt. Noel acted as interpreter, as the old man spoke no English. Perhaps he'll have another adventure in store for me this time.

To the degree that our caretakers attack or abandon us for showing vulnerability, to that degree do we later avoid the authentic self-expression that is fundamental to intimacy. The outer critic forms to remind us that everyone else is surely as dangerous as our original caretakers. Subliminal memories of being scorned for seeking our parents' support then short-circuit our inclinations to share our troubles and ask for help.

Forty years ago, I was riding on a train in India travelling from Delhi to Calcutta.

Somatic awareness and sensate focusing sometimes opens up memories and unworked through feelings of grief about your childhood abuse and neglect. This phenomenon provides invaluable, therapeutic opportunities to more fully grieve the losses of childhood. If more pain comes up then you can digest on your own, please consider getting someone more experienced to help you with this process.